


Less Than Nothing

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bullying, Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-02 19:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Bullies really are the worst. Good thing Prompto has a best friend he can fall back on. Right?





	Less Than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScribeOfReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfReaper/gifts).



> I got the lovely [ScribeOfReaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfReaper) in a Secret Santa fic exchange, who gave the prompt: _Noctis aggravates the scars on his back when protecting Prompto from bullies, He ends up being laid up for a week with Ignis taking care of him. Gladio and a very guilty Prompto track down the bullies. Bonus points: you work in how Gladio got his first scar._
> 
> Bonus points: achieved.

  * crash



Books and bag drop to polished wood floors, a dull, heavy counterpoint to the rising voices.

_Outsider_. _Alien_. _Leech_. _Filthy parasite_.

Insults sting, like vinegar in a cut, but he’s gotten used to them. He doesn’t belong here, yeah, he knows, only been told a million times, thanks. But it’s fine. It’s nothing he can’t handle.

Except his tormentors have turned to physical means as well as verbal. His sides _hurt_ from bony, jabbing elbows; his shoulders, back, arms all _ache_ from being shoved against lockers; the back of his head _throbs_ after hitting metal.

And today’s far from over.

 

  * dim



“Prompto’s been rather quiet as of late.”

Noctis shrugs as he dumps his bag on the floor beside the coffee table and collapses onto the couch. “Has he? Didn’t notice.”

They’re best friends; of course he’s noticed.

“You might want to consider talking to him,” Ignis continues, oblivious to the way he’s already tried. “He doesn’t seem his usual cheery self.”

“School’s hard,” is Noctis’s reply. “He’s tired.”

Ignis hums, unconvinced, and Noctis doesn’t blame him. Prompto hasn’t been himself for weeks, lacking a spark that’s gone unnoticed until now it’s gone, leaving him dull around the edges. It’s... concerning.

 

  * futile



Even though he knows dragging his dress shoes over the concrete is scuffing them, he can’t seem to help it. Not when each step brings him closer to school, where those who have dubbed themselves “Lucis’s elite” are lying in wait.

_Elite_. Right, sure. They aren’t the elite. This isn’t even one of those fancy academies, just a _regular high school_. They aren’t better than him, no matter what they say.

They aren’t.

His footsteps slow further; dread bubbles sticky and thick in his gut as the school comes into view—

—as do his tormentors, inescapable as his own shadow.

 

  * erratic



Before classes start: For all he’s a bit haphazard, Prompto always arrived at school before Noctis. Now he without fail slides into class just as the bell rings.

Mid-morning break: He either clings to Noctis’s side or is nowhere to be found.

Lunch: They still sit together—although Prompto too often doesn’t show up until lunch is almost finished.

Mid-afternoon break: And he’s gone again, vanishing into the crowd...

After classes end: Each day is different. Sometimes Prompto has time to hang out with Noctis; most days Prompto vanishes immediately. _Had to run_ , he texts later. Noctis somehow isn’t convinced.

 

  * loved



Running used to be something he enjoyed.

Maybe not at first—it was the hardest thing in the world for weeks, months. He persisted, though, and one day he found himself exited to run rather than dreading it.

Running used to be how he processed the world.

He’d discover new places, mull over subject-specific problems he was confused by, pause to take photos.

Running is now the way he escapes.

From the world, from his problems, from _them_. He tries not to think, tries to lose himself in the overwhelming burn of overworked muscles.

Running is necessary now, not fun.

 

  * soft



Gladio scowls as he steps into their usual training room. “Just us today?”

Considering Noctis is carefully stretching his back out alone, it seems rather obvious. “Yup.”

“Third time this month he’s skipped.”

He slowly arches his spine until scars tighten in warning. “I know.”

“What,” Gladio asks, scoffing, “has he gone soft or something?”

Noctis’s thoughts leap back to how sharp Prompto’s ribs felt the last time he elbowed him. “Nah, he’s been running lots.”

“Running won’t improve his combat skills,” Gladio grumbles, but turns his attention to sparring preparation. Thank Eos. He’s tired of discussing Prompto’s increasing absences.

 

  * hold



He’s trying to keep things together, he’s trying _really hard_ , but he feels like he’s teetering on the brink of insanity.

Skulking from class to class to escape the notice of _them_. Avoiding his best friend to escape the inevitable questions. Running to escape the growing mountain of problems.

Can’t go to anyone. Parents aren’t around. Adults don’t care and can’t stop it. Noctis doesn’t need to burden himself with more problems.

He’s alone, losing his grip on every part of his life he once had under control, helpless to stop himself from drowning a silent death beneath the surface.

 

  * shackles



Being prince is hard.

Despite his best efforts, he hasn’t managed to keep the friends he’s made. Friend, rather. Why, he still doesn’t know—Prompto’s avoiding him like the Starscourge.

Doesn’t matter—Noctis has a pretty good idea of why.

Being friends with royalty is a pain. Rules here, restrictions there, expectations _everywhere_. Nothing about it is easy, not for royalty and not for anyone close to them. Prompto’s a free spirit, he’s probably decided it’s easier to cut ties.

It would’ve been nice if he’d told him to his face, but Noctis gets it. He does.

Still hurts, though.

 

  * broken



Lunch, and Prompto is hiding.

Again.

At least Ms. Serena is nice and lets him stay an extra fifteen minutes after math ends, working problems through with him, even when he doesn’t actually need the help.

But then he has to leave the safety of her room and sneak to his next class. He’s pretty good at it now—

“Hello, cur.”

—except today.

He barely has a chance to tense before he’s shoved, _hard_ , sent sprawling in the middle of the hall, body one way, books and bag another.

His stomach knots as _they_ loom over him. This is baaaaad.

 

  * precious



Lunch, and Prompto hasn’t showed.

Again.

What a surprise.

Sighing, Noctis pokes one carrot stick with another. Four days out of five, he’s eating alone now.

It’s... lonely. The other kids are nice enough—some are, anyway—but they aren’t best friend material.

Noctis snaps the carrot stick in half before dropping it on his plate and standing with a scowl. Picks up his bag. Walks from the hall.

Prompto’s been a good friend, last couple months aside. Now it’s his turn. If Prompto won’t come to him, he’ll go to Prompto.

Best friends do that kind of thing, right?

 

  * odds and ends



There’s four, five, six, more of them, crowding around, towering over him with their sneers and jeers.

He gulps. Bad time to even think of being witty.

“Acknowledge your betters, you useless barbarian.”

He’s yanked upright, dragged and shoved about by what aren’t quite kicks and punches. They’ve always been careful to avoid leaving evidence that can be traced back to them—but then, they’ve never attacked him in the middle of the hall before either.

“He’s the _prince_ , you’re just an unworthy mongrel lapping at his boots.”

There’s no escaping. One way or another—probably for worse—everything’s changed.

 

  * tea



There’s a cacophony down the hall. Noctis doesn’t know how he knows Prompto’s in the middle of it, but he does.

So he sprints down the corridor, resisting the temptation to warp as he approaches a ring of students.

No warping in school. No weapons in school. _Rules_.

He shoves his way through the crowd, using strength Gladio’s helped him develop. A mug of tea goes flying; scalding liquid hits his jacket, pants, his hand, but he’s barely aware of the pain.

Prompto’s in trouble. He has to help.

So he balls his fists and leaps into the fray, snarling.

 

  * twisted



No. Nonononono everything’s gone wrong. Noct—Prince Noctis isn’t supposed to be here, isn’t supposed to see _this_. It isn’t his problem.

He isn’t supposed to save someone like him, and yet:

“Stay away from my friend,” Noctis demands, bold and without room for argument as he plants himself in front of Prompto, seeming impossibly tall and borderline regal from where Prompto’s sprawled across the floor.

This isn’t right. He isn’t worth saving—Noctis has far more important things to worry about, like grades and... and...

Astrals, he just wants to fall straight through the floor and never surface again.

 

  * echo



The hall is silent except for the hammering of Noctis’s pulse through his head as he glares down the group of students who—it is abruptly obvious—have been bullying his friend.

This is _unacceptable_. It stops. Today.

As Noctis watches, the bullies glance between one another, unspoken words flying fast and thick as they decide what to do. Idiots. Just run.

His body thrums with the memory of yesterday’s training. He could so easily hurt all of them. Kill them, even. Won’t. But he could.

Infuriatingly, the ring tightens. “This isn’t your fight, so do step aside, _your highness_.”

 

  * soothe



Noctis’s arrival creates just enough space and breathing room for Prompto to stand, peeking over Noctis’s shoulder at the faces who have haunted his waking moments and his nightmares in turn. Where he finds the courage to reach out and pluck at the back of Noctis’s jacket, he doesn’t know, but he can’t stop himself, even as his tormentors stalk closer to them.

“No, please, Noct—Noctis. This really isn’t your fight. Go.”

“Not a chance,” Noctis snaps, and Prompto snatches his hand away from the hot sparks of anger crackling off the prince as they face down the crowd.

 

  * fight



The hallway is dead still—and then it isn’t.

If he’s truly honest, he’s a bit shocked they dare rush him; he wouldn’t be brave enough if positions were reversed.

He’s been trained in combat since he was six, he _knows_ he can take out every single student gathered around them, but he has Prompto to protect and doesn’t actually want to kill or seriously injure anyone, even though he kind of secretly does. But only secretly and only kind of, and so he has to wait for them to come to him, which they do.

And then they _fight_.

 

  * naked



Slightly removed from the sudden brawl that’s broken out, Prompto is able to, just a bit, appreciate the way Noctis knows his way around a fight—and the moment the other students realize the same thing. The way their expressions twist with horror when Noctis neatly incapacitates the first one to reach him almost, _almost_ makes the last couple months of hell worth it just to witness this unfolding retribution. So satisfying—

—right up until he’s grabbed from behind.

“ _Oh_ , _prince_ ,” is yelled over his shoulder, and the way Noctis’s expression is _livid_ when he turns makes Prompto’s stomach plummet.

 

  * push



How many times has Gladio reminded him to never turn his back on his opponents? Hundreds?

Not enough, obviously—but Prompto’s in danger, and he can change that.

He _will_ change that.

Except as he lunges forward, intent on disenabling the student holding Prompto, something collides with him, throwing him sideways. He lands _hard_ , breath jolted from his body a moment before lines of fire wrap up his back and around his shoulders, as painful as they are familiar.

He chokes back a scream. _No_. Not again.

Past the ringing in his ears, he imagines the hall has gone silent.

 

  * alive



In the end, Prompto is convinced only the sudden appearance of several teachers is what saves him and Noctis from being straight-up murdered. Then everything is a blur of motion as adults _swarm_ the group of students, and he loses sight of Noctis as tall bodies surround the fallen prince, and oh Astrals, is he—?

“Noctis!”

Prompto somehow shoves his way into seeing what’s going on in time for Noctis to groan and slowly push himself up on one elbow. “Dude, I’m not dead.”

He just looks it when he curls up again with another distressing noise of pain.

 

  * [writer’s choice] proof



Ignis sighs as he flicks through several dozen texts, the subject identical.

_Oh_ , _Noct_...

By his understanding, every student visible when the school staff intervened has been temporarily suspended so their level of involvement can be determined. Because Noctis— _Prince_ Noctis—is on that list, the investigation is moving faster than it might otherwise, which is perhaps the only upside.

A severe downside is multiple sources claiming Noctis was fighting other students, something Ignis finds difficult to believe. Noctis is a loner; he wouldn’t fight without good reason. He hopes so, anyway, otherwise they have bigger problems on their hands.

 

  * new



Bedrest for a week? Seriously? Ugh. He thought he was long past this part of his life, but apparently not.

Which, great, just _great_. It’s not like he asked for his scars to be agitated, especially by such a cheap shot, but no one could have known this would be the end result. Normally his scars aren’t even a problem, yesterday just _happened_ to be weird.

_Ugh_. Why him?

Worst part is he isn’t even at his apartment—he’s back to his dreary room in the Citadel, for _safety_. And it’s... like he never left. Nothing changes here.

Repeat: _ugh_.

 

  * born



So, yeah, everyone hates him. Prince Noctis summons him to the Citadel, probably to officially terminate their friendship; Gladio is silent and judgmental while walking him through the Citadel’s foreboding halls; Ignis’s stare is cold and aloof when he steps out of Noctis’s room to join them.

Three friends lost forever, all because he got the prince injured.

“Ten minutes,” Ignis says, words frosty. “Don’t tire him too much.”

Prompto bobs his head, wonders if maybe he should bow, but he knows due to Noctis neither Gladio nor Ignis is actually royalty, so he refrains. Barely.

Feels wrong, though. Rude.

 

  * murmur



Noctis can’t help a smile when Prompto’s spiky blond head appears around the door, followed by the rest of him. “Prompto, hey. Come in.”

Already several days have dragged by since The Incident, each hour longer than the last, and because Prompto hasn’t so much as texted him since, an invitation here seemed easier.

It’s going to be hard to talk if he insists on remaining wide-eyed by the door, though.

“Noct, I... I’m sorry,” Prompto says, almost too low to hear. Before Noctis can respond, Prompto spins and vanishes through the door again, leaving Noctis staring, confused and hurt.

 

  * devious



Gladio walks him out of the Citadel, still silent, still judgmental. It isn’t until they’re decidedly off Citadel grounds that he realizes Gladio’s still keeping pace.

Right. That’s weird.

More silence. More judging. When, several minutes later, Prompto dares look at him, it’s to find a truly wicked gleam in Gladio’s eyes. It’s _terrifying_.

He squeaks and stops walking. “Am I dead? Are you going to kill me now?”

Gladio snorts, shaking his head. “We’re going to plan revenge.”

“R-revenge?”

“What,” Gladio asks, slow and sly, “you didn’t think we were gonna let ’em get away with this, did you?”

 

  * isolation



“Where’s Prompto?” Noctis asks a week later, aimlessly looking around the horrible confines of his bedroom. “He’s ignoring my texts.”

Ignis hums and steps into view, a steaming mug held between his hands. “I do believe he’s avoiding us.”

Noctis snorts. “So is everyone.” Gladio, anyway.

“Don’t exaggerate, Noct.”

“ _Everyone_.”

Sighing, Ignis hands the mug over and makes to leave. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“See, you’re doing it too.”

“I’m merely fulfilling my duties.”

He knows that, he does. He’s just... bored and lonely, especially without his friend around. The silence is too loud these days.

 

  * starve



Prompto stares at his phone, reading a whole string of texts. Dozens. More. Maybe a hundred. He should text Noctis back, but... No. Not yet. Not until he and Gladio have taken their revenge.

Which perhaps isn’t normal revenge, but Gladio’s insisting on teaching him about reconnaissance. That they’re gathering all of his tormentors’ secrets as possible is purely circumstantial.

But truly, he just wants this over with. The ache in his gut gnaws deeper with each minute, hour, day that passes, an endless drag of time against raw perception.

Just... let this be over so he can _live_ again.

 

  * breakable



“I don’t understand.”

The words burst out of him, silence shattering like glass dropped on tile.

Ignis glances up from the papers he’s reading. “Hmm?”

“Prompto.”

“What about him?”

“Him. I don’t... understand him.”

Paper rustles as it’s set down. “What he has done or what he has not done?”

“Both? He just... he isn’t acting normal. Hasn’t for weeks.”

“Perhaps that isn’t surprising, considering what he’s gone through.”

“Yeah, but it’s over now. Things can go back to normal.”

“Maybe,” Ignis suggests, words slow, “he’s trying to fit himself back together first.”

Then he can do it alone. “Maybe.”

 

  * winter



Their plan is perfect, executed with cold, clinical precision.

Which means everything goes perfectly—right up until the moment it doesn’t and their final information-gathering session is interrupted by people who aren’t where they should be.

Which is their first mistake.

Their second is not running soon enough.

And that’s how they end up fighting their way through almost a dozen of Prompto’s former classmates in order to escape. It’s a fast, messy ordeal, full of blood and yelling, and then suddenly it’s over, Gladio and Prompto exhaling clouds of steam into the chilly air as they _run_ , heading home.

 

  * ignore



Noctis’s phone buzzes with a tone he hasn’t heard in so long it almost isn’t familiar now.

He glares at the ceiling and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at it. Serves Prompto right for ignoring him for _over a week_.

It’s harder not to look when his bedroom door is shoved open, allowing Gladio and Prompto to tumble into the room, both of them bizarrely breathless and giddy.

Noctis stares at Gladio—or rather, at the bloody gash dripping into his left eye.

“ _What happened_?” he demands, sitting up, something that barely hurts now.

More laughter is his only answer.

 

  * [writer’s choice] assistance



Gladio nods in approval as he watches Noctis and Prompto spar. Not perfect, either of them, but they’re better than they were even a week ago, especially now Noctis’s recovery is complete. Both boys seem to be doing well, thankfully, better since they talked things through, decisions were made to suspend certain individuals, and there are solid plans to increase security in place. There’s no way this will happen again.

Noctis breaks through Prompto’s guard, sending him sprawling. Seconds later, both boys are laughing as Noctis extends a hand to help Prompto up, and Gladio nods again.

They’ll be fine.

 

  * color



So... the world is bright again. More amazing, almost, are the vivid rainbows streaking along his skin, bruises in their many stages of healing.

Noctis whistles as he plunks down beside him on the training room floor, bottles in hand. “Those are impressive.”

Scoffing lightly, Prompto tugs his shirt down again and accepts the offered water. “Not really. Got them by being cowardly.”

“No. Dude, no. Not at all. Bigger opponents and all that.” Noct holds his bottle out. “Why we’re teaching ya how to fight back.”

Prompto nods, smile shaky as he taps his bottle against Noct’s. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”


End file.
